All the World’s a Stage

The other day I got to thinking about chapters of life. It seems as though everyone around me enjoys organizing themselves into neat periods of time. “Back in high school when I loved alternative rock,” I once heard a friend declare. Or my mom who often talks about her “época de juventud” — her young adult years. This made me wonder how I could define my chapters, of which there are still only two of note. Here’s what I came up with:

High school - when I understood what a mature future looked like.

College - when I learned (repeatedly and against my will) that maturity is not included in the tuition and must be purchased separately.

Over my freshman summer semester at UF, I decided that I needed a job — among other things (direction, guidance, a break). But a job would come first. I was an adult now, and it was apparently time I started acting like one. Scrolling through the endless list of part-time postings online, I came across a listing for a stagehand position at the Curtis M Phillips Center. The sprawling 1,700-seat performance venue that serves as a gateway for touring Broadway shows, symphony performances and stunning ballets to enter Gainesville. As a former Thespian president and the resident friend who always prefers show-tune karaoke over all else, I immediately jumped at the chance to apply. A month later, I received an email asking me to schedule an interview. I was ecstatic and pictured myself prancing into the theater and blowing them away with the technical theater knowledge I had acquired in high school — almost as if I was auditioning for the part of part-time employee.

As a stubborn, ready-to-prove-himself freshman, I took the public bus system for the first time to get to that interview. I wouldn't dare ask a friend or call a Lyft. I had to do it myself, spending as little money as possible. The building itself was impressive, a grand hall that sits on the southwest corner of UF campus, complete with tall windows and high ceilings. I was reeling.

Image courtesy of Gabriel Gonzalez Marino

On my first tour of the theater, I could barely contain my excitement. The red velvet seats and complex fly rail system amazed me. My first impression was that the whole building was haunted — not with ghosts or demons, but with stories, music and scenography beyond my comprehension. “The best theaters are haunted,” I once had a friend say when I recounted this story to him. He was right. The Phantom of the Opera ambiance drove me insane, and I couldn't believe this mammoth of culture and art would be my first job out of high school. I hope they can sense my maturity and passion for the arts, I foolishly thought as I was added to my first few training shifts.

I did a lot of growing up as an employee at the Phillips Center. It made me feel like an adult to tell my parents about my coworkers and training. Once, I worked all day backstage in mounting a Broadway show and called them to report every detail. It was as if I was finally at the adults table at Thanksgiving, adding to conversations I had only ever observed from a distance. For the first time in a long time, it also made me proud of myself. I was learning the behind-the-scenes secrets of a real performing arts center. The weighted anchor mechanisms that suspend Broadway scenery into the 80-foot ceiling and the space beneath the stage that houses the orchestra pit lift. The curtain quite literally opened up to me, revealing a world of lighting rigs and pin rails that I didn’t yet understand but desperately wanted to learn.

Maturity can feel impossible to obtain, and being the stubborn person I am, I wanted so badly to be independent. When I got my first paycheck, I brushed off my parents’ advice about how to spend and budget my money because I felt I had to prove I could do it on my own. That didn’t exactly work out when I impulsively spent a week's grocery money on a new eyebrow piercing. Nevertheless, there I was, 380 miles away from home and determined to show that I was thriving right off the bat.

It was as if I was addicted to independence. I started tuning out the advice of everyone around me. I can finally do this on my own, I told myself. I thought about all my past “almost-adult” disappointments — failing my first driver’s test, choosing the wrong partners, throwing tantrums over difficult assignments. I could almost feel those moments slipping away, like curtains closing over my mistakes. But so did my imagined maturity as I realized things were still going awry. I was sleeping through alarms and stocking up on cheap junk food instead of the necessities at the grocery store. I was overbooking and overworking myself to try and prove that I was worthy. Who was I fighting so hard to prove myself to? I thought as I rode the bus to work one night, sitting alone and listening to my favorite Gaitas to remind myself of home.

During one specific shift at the end of November, I was working a Christmas orchestra show, standing outside the building and ripping ticket stubs as guests waited for the doors to open. A group of cheerful chorus singers came out and began singing to the impatient line. Some patrons started recording and singing along. Others held their loved ones closer in the chilly North Floridian air, the same cold air that I had yet to grow accustomed to. As the final notes to Silent Night rang out, I realized it was probably the first time I had heard Christmas carols without my family somewhere nearby. Lost in those memories and feelings, I began to tear up.

There I was, a part-time event staffer getting emotional over ticket stubs and Christmas music. This was a scene that didn’t play out on stage, but in reality — an 18-year-old college student crying in public, in front of his new coworkers, because he misses his mom and dad.

In that blizzard of emotions, I realized I really didn’t have to do everything alone —adults still need a support system and it's okay to ask for help or miss your parents now and again. It was at this very moment I entered that second chapter of life.

I believe it is common to be at a loss in your first year of college, where everyone around you seems already so in control of their business. However, I can now say with absolute certainty that it does not make us weak to turn to the people we love in times of hardship or self-doubt. The very opposite is true, it is through vulnerability and our commitment to relationships with loved ones that we mature as people, and these grounding relationships are the most important ones to nurture. My parents have had to put up with my stubborn attitude for quite some time, and it took me so long to finally realize that all they wanted to do was support me, not undermine me, as it had always previously felt. It took me even longer to see that the very act of being a mature adult was just that, an act, a trick using smoke and mirrors.

Like William Shakespeare said:

"All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players”

— As You Like It, II.vii

I think what he was really trying to say is: no one truly knows what the hell they are doing.

My work at the Phillips Center has led me one step further on my path to maturity and self-actualization. I cannot recommend the theater enough to anyone who is in search of new eye-opening and artistic experiences here in Gainesville. It is where I learned it’s okay to grow up at my own rate, and that the more I gave myself patience and grace, the more I was able to step into the spotlight of my own story.

Strike Out,

Writer: Gabriel Gonzalez Marino

Editor: Olivia Evans

Gabriel Gonzalez Marino is a writer for Strike Magazine, Gainesville, who believes good stories come from real life and mild chaos. A proud Venezuelan American and devoted Garfield the cat fan, he fills his days with romance movies, pop culture, and thoughtful spirals about the future — balanced out by two part-time jobs in Gainesville he deeply loves. Find him on Instagram @gabrgonz or email him at gabrielgonzalezmarino74@gmail.com.

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